


The Plums on the Counter

by anonymous_sibyl



Series: Howl & Voting Districts [3]
Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M, Sorkinverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-29
Updated: 2006-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-04 02:08:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymous_sibyl/pseuds/anonymous_sibyl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was everything except the plums on the counter and the house of cards, and she scared him to death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Plums on the Counter

**Author's Note:**

> Toby and Tabatha communicate through (and quote) "Litany" by Billy Collins and "This is Just to Say" by William Carlos Williams. Title is also from "Litany."
> 
> This work is licensed under a [Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License](http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/us/). None of the media or characters written about in my fanfiction belong to me and I make no profit from these works. 

There was a book on his desk. That in itself wasn't unusual, there were somewhere around fifty books stacked precariously on his desk and two lying on the floor where they'd fallen, what was unusual about this one book was that it was poetry and it belonged to her. She'd started leaving books there and it was driving him crazy. What he didn't know was if it was driving him crazy because she was leaving poetry there or because he was actually reading the poetry.

Last week when she used the last of the toothpaste she left a shopping list on his refrigerator that began, "this is just to say…" She did things like that, made the everyday into poetry, and he wasn't sure he understood. He was getting used to it, though, and that, maybe, was what really drove him crazy.

Tabatha has been away for the past week, doing readings in the Northeast to promote her new book—chapbook, his brain substituted, a word he'd learned from her—and she ostensibly still lived on the other side of the country, so there was no way he should be missing her.

"You are the bread and the knife," he read out loud from the dog-eared page. "And somehow the wine."

"You've been reading my Billy Collins."

He hadn't heard the door open or shut. He turned down the page of the book before he put it back on his desk. "You're home."

"Early." Tabatha laughed and flung her arms around his neck. "And you said 'home'."

He had. He hadn't meant to, but he'd said it. That was something he would think about later when she was quiet. Now there were things to do, hellos, how are yous, and changing the subject as quickly as he could before she could quote—or worse pause to write—poetry on the theme of home. "You left it on my desk. The book."

"I did."

"Why? Why did you do that?"

"Leave it or leave it on your desk?" She laughed again, stroking her hand down his cheek before she moved slowly away to put down her sweater and bag.

"Leave it on my desk. It's my desk. It's where I…" he trailed off, nothing to say about what he did at that desk, because, in truth, lately he had done nothing much at all.

She brushed her hand across the desk the same way she had across his cheek. "So you would find it, of course. So you would know."

"Know." He shook his head. "I never understand you."

"You could," she offered. "If you wanted to. I would explain."

"And I'd be lost."

"If you were lost, I'd find you." She took him by the hand and led him through the house to his bedroom. He followed willingly. "I would always find you."

"Why?"

"Because you, Toby, are the rain on the roof and the shooting star."

"But not the bread and the knife."

Her laugh, when she threw back her head, was throaty and genuine, and it made him happy. Her happiness made him happy. He was content with his life now, not inspired, not stimulated, but pleased and peaceful. Things were slower, she made them that way. There was something about her that alleviated some of the urgency he used to feel, and that scared him. He needed the urgency in order to accomplish things, and he was a man who needed accomplishments, yet he worried he needed this woman more.

The bed was made, something he didn't often achieve when she was there, what with her habit of curling back up with her morning coffee and a book. She poked a finger in the dirt of the plant she'd hung in the window then shook it at him. "You're killing my plant."

"I forgot."

"You forgot an entire plant?"

"I've been busy."

"Busy?" She cocked her head at him skeptically and it made him want to run his hands through her hair and pull her close. "Busy doing what?"

"Well, replacing the toothpaste, for one. And I bought plums."

"Toby." She took his hand and pulled him down to the bed beside her. "You don't like plums."

He bought plums and toothpaste, and he read the books she left all over his house. The plums were symbolic to show her he understood her grocery list, the toothpaste was necessary, and the books were just because she liked them. "I had to make up for the plant."

"You could have just watered it," she said, punctuating her words with tiny kisses trailed across his forehead. "But plums, those are wonderful. I could make something with them."

"No," he admonished, "you can't. You are the white apron of the baker, Tabatha, but you are certainly not the baker. As a matter of clear fact you are a disaster in the kitchen."

She giggled tiredly. "I am, aren't I?"

"Fact, I said."

Tabatha placed one hand over her mouth as she yawned, then snuggled into his chest. "It's a good thing I have you, then."

He pulled the blanket he'd folded so carefully at the foot of his bed out from under her feet and tucked it around them both. She yawned again and he held her close, brushing her hair from her face. He took her shoulders in his hands and gently rolled her onto her back.

Sometimes the way she looked at him scared him, like he was something special, something more than Toby Ziegler who had to accept a Presidential pardon and therefore had it in writing how he failed his country and his friends yet wasn't even allowed to atone for his sins. It wasn't right, but he couldn't ask her to stop. "You are the burning wheel of the sun," he murmured.

Tabatha lifted her head from the pillow and sighed when their lips touched, shrugged out of his grip and wrapped her arms tightly around his back. At first he struggled to keep his weight off her, but soon enough sunk down until their bodies were aligned.

"What else?" she asked. "What else am I?"

"The dew on the grass and the marsh birds in flight."

Her fingers tickled the back of his neck when her lips brushed his cheek. "You read it all."

She was everything except the plums on the counter and the house of cards, and she scared him to death. "You were gone," he said. "And I was lonely." He never used to be lonely, either. "You're changing me."

"I'm loving you."

_I'm loving you, too_, he wanted to say, but there was nothing in the poem he'd read that day or the speeches he'd written that told him how to say that to her, so instead he kissed her again and hoped that was enough.


End file.
